There were no tears running down her cheeks, but she felt a cloud of sadness blocking the radiant San Francisco sunshine.

October 1964

“Of course, Miss Burton, we would be proud and happy to host you in the hotel.” Yeruchum allowed himself a smile. “Mrs. Schwartz has missed you terribly.”

A flood of images and memories: Mrs. S. peeling potatoes. Mrs. L. surrounded by her children. Artie throwing a frisbee, singing a little song.

And then a piercing thought: Did they really care about me? Did they miss me? Have they changed?

Have I?

“Okay, that’s settled.” Fred Burton’s voice — confident, almost commanding — had returned; the tears had vanished. “We’ll catch the first flight out.”

“I’m sorry, Father, but I can’t go quite yet. I’ve got some goodbyes to say first. Some thank-yous.” She nodded toward Sam Lefkowitz, who’d been quietly observing the scene from a corner of the small room. “And,” she added, a touch of her former bravado edging her words, “I’m going to have to do something about the Mustang.”

“The Mustang? What have you done to my car?” her father demanded.

Once again, Yeruchum put a soothing hand on the man’s shoulder. Burton sighed but relented. His voice was calm, though edged with tension. “Whatever it is, I’m sure we can deal with it.”

Marjorie walked with them to where she’d parked. Fred Burton shuddered visibly when he saw the paint and the broken trunk.

“Well, well, well, you’ve certainly changed it,” he said, with false cheer.

Marjorie could defend herself, place the blame on Chrissie, where it belonged. Or she could argue that Father should accept her — and the car — the way she is. She did neither. Instead, she took his hands in hers. “I’m really sorry, Father. About the car. About everything.”

Another sigh, but when he spoke, the false cheer had vanished. “It’s your car now, Marjorie. We can give it a paint job and some body work, and I’ll find a college student to drive it back home. That is, if you want me to. It’s a little beaten and bent,” he added, running his finger over the dent, “but it will be fine.”

A little beaten and bent, but it will be fine.

Just like me.

IN the many times in her frenetic life that Marjorie had run away — from angry teachers, schoolyard bullies, and a home where she felt unloved — she’d felt no compunction, no melancholy at leaving people or places behind. Sad goodbyes were just not her thing.

That, as Mama Mumu would have said, was yesterday. But this was today.

The sun was glinting off the water where she’d taken that jump. Now, a lot calmer than she’d been then, she and Danny strolled through Golden Gate Park.

“So you’re leaving, huh? Not enough freedom here?” There was a touch of bitterness in his voice.

Marjorie felt a pang. “Danny, I’m done digging for freedom. It’s just not happening. What I’m after is something else.”

“Love?”

Marjorie bit her lip. “No. Not the kind of love like in the Haight, anyway, just words and pictures painted on my poor Mustang. But real love, maybe. And that means forgiving people. Like Mama Mumu said, hate is a stone that’s too heavy to hold. I want to lighten that load. And I’ve got this crazy feeling I might find what I’m looking for in that shabby old hotel.”

Danny came to a sudden stop and looked at Marjorie directly, his eye capturing hers. “I’m going to miss you, Margie. You’ll keep in touch?”

“Of course.”

“Well, I guess this is goodbye then.”

“Yup. Our flight leaves in a couple of hours. Gotta find poor Chrissie, try to convince her to let me tell her parents where she’s at, and also talk to your dad. But, Danny — thank you. For everything.”

Marjorie turned around and hurried away, leaving the park behind. There were no tears running down her cheeks, but she felt a cloud of sadness blocking the radiant San Francisco sunshine.

Because, she now learned, goodbyes were hard.